


Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

by secondhandact



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Crossdressing, Hate Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Coercion, Smoking, and John doesn't need that in his life, in which Dave is a drug dealer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact
Summary: Sometimes, you need a little help to make sure you get the perfect scores that you need to get into that great college that you have to go to.Sometimes, your ex best friend is an asshole who knows all your weaknesses.Sometimes, you have to give in to get what you want.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _I have no idea why I ever took this down_.
> 
> I genuinely really, really enjoy this fic. I enjoyed writing it. My bb helped a lot with it. Once upon a time it was meant to be a warm-up dabble.
> 
> I wish all my warm-up drabbles came out this good.
> 
> Enjoy.

Running into your ex best friend at school is probably the worst thing that can happen to you. It just doesn’t look good. After all, you’re John Egbert, the all-American all-star, student body president and football legend; and Dave - well. He’s not just any Dave, but Dave fucking Strider, no-good drug dealer sleazeball extraordinaire. He’s the guy you go to when you need a fix, a hook-up, an alibi, or a fake hall pass. He can score test answers without batting an eye and fakes doctor’s signature’s with a hand so steady that even the doctors themselves are fooled. He’s the master of the student body’s underworld, and - as far as the upper echelons of society are concerned - the scum of the earth. In other words, the opposite of the sort of person you, John Egbert (future valedictorian and all around good guy), should be associating with, regardless of whether or not you’d been inseparable when you were kids. Former friends or not, you can’t let him sully your image. Not now. Not ever.

It’s been like this since the summer before freshman year, and he doesn’t seem  _ too _ troubled by your weird little arrangement. It’s almost like he has an appreciation for the fact that—unlike him—you’ve got your life together, and you like it that way. You’d tried to make it clear to him, way back when, that you had  _ plans _ for high school. That you had a reputation to create and uphold, to match the legacy your father had left before you. You’d tried to be polite when you’d pointed out that, in the grand scheme of things, he wasn’t going to do anything but drag you down. He just didn’t fit. Not in the big picture, the one that  your Dad you had set up for John Egbert, someday CEO of Crockercorp and Nobel Prize winner.

You had a future. Dave Strider did not.

You can’t be seen with a deadbeat like Dave, and he knows it. Him knowing it makes it easier for you to avoid Dave at school, and he doesn’t usually complain about the fact that you restrict all your interactions with him to shady late night dealings in dark parking lots, far from anything familiar and out of sight of anyone you know. This pattern is safe, and has served both of you well over the past three years. You get what you need, Dave gets paid, and sometimes the two of you share a few jokes before you get back in your car and return to pretending he doesn’t exist.

That routine is why Dave’s insistence about this week’s dealings are so singularly maddening: today’s the final in your AP physics class, and while you’re pretty sure you can scrape out a passing mark in your other courses this semester, physics has always given you hell. In order to even hope to get close to the top score in the class, you  _ need _ those pills, need them so bad that you’d asked for them a  _ week _ ago. You’d asked and Dave—fucking  _ Dave _ —had fucking  _ dawdled _ , had fucking dragged his stupid fucking feet until you’d surrendered to the terms he’d laid down and had agreed to (ugh) meet him at school, if you had to. Dave Strider, who could get  _ anything _ , couldn’t get a damn thing to help you on your test except  _ maybe _ at school. He didn’t want to carry that shit around on him, he claimed. Needed to make the pickup and the dropoff in the same day, Dave said. Same period, even. Never mind that he’d gotten it for you last semester, and the semester before.  _ Rules have changed, Egbert _ , he’d intoned with a deadpan so grave it was almost funny (would be funny, if this wasn’t your  _ high school career _ he was ruining), his expression the same bored mask it always is.  _ Gotta keep up with the times. _

What an  _ asshole. _

Anyway, you hate meeting Dave at school. There’s always eyes in the halls, in the cafeteria, always people that can see what you’re doing. You’re careful not to give him so much as a second look when you pass him on your way to class over the next week, despite the fact that there’s a part of you that wants to grab him by his stupid narrow shoulders and just shake him until the pills you need fall out of the pockets of his stupid, too-tight pants.

It’s harder to ignore him when you’re waiting for him to give you a sign, and you realize as the week wears on that you can’t stop thinking about him, and it’s driving you absolutely nuts. Since you friend-dumped him at the beginning of high school, you’ve been careful to ensure that Dave Strider doesn’t exist to you outside of your deals, and now that he’s plaguing your every thought, it’s almost impossible to not stare when he slouches past you in the narrow school corridors. By the time you finally get the text Friday morning, you’re so anxious about it that your stomach is doing flips.  
  
TG: yo i got your shit  
TG: not your literal shit ofc thatd be gross as hell but the shit you demanded like a toolbag for your art appreciation course or whatever  
TG: meet me in the bathroom outside wood shop after second period  
TG: that aint cutting it too close is it egbert i mean i know that youve got shit youve got to do and all them people to see maybe even some ladies to proverbially get it on with  


Oh thank  __ God.  
  
EB: fucking finally!! jeez  
TG: love you too honeysugarbuns  
EB: uuuuuuuugh.  
TG: <3 mwah  
TG: see you soon sweetiepie mchotcheeks

The next two classes drag on so long that you’re pretty sure someone is screwing with time, just to screw with you.

* * *

It’s harder than you expect it to be to actually enter the bathroom when it hits 12:40, but the thought of facing your physics exam after lunch without assistance blasts all that anxiety right out of the water. Taking a deep breath, you shove the door open.

The acrid smell of cigarette smoke immediately burns its way into your lungs. You flap your hand ineffectually in front of your face—like that’s actually gonna do anything to clear the air—and let the door bang shut behind you. You don’t want to call his name, because he might not even be in here. You don’t want to admit you’re doing this, because admitting how desperate you are is the same as admitting defeat. You don’t want anyone to know.

Screw it.

“Da—”

You choke on the second half of his name when he steps out of the bathroom stall, because  _ Dave Strider is wearing a  _ **_skirt_ ** . Dave Strider is wearing a skirt and thigh highs, Dave Strider is wearing a skirt and thigh highs and (your gaze flicks down surreptitiously) fucking  _ saddle shoes _ , a button-up shirt ( _ that shirt is too small _ your mind whispers, and the rest of you can’t think clearly enough to agree) and a stupid, stupid,  _ stupid _ red tie.

Dave Strider is wearing a skirt, and you can’t breathe.

It’s clear that this is the reaction that he wants, because he looks so smug you want to hit him, and he takes a slow drag off the cigarette he’s got trapped between two fingers. “Hey, daddy.”

The fog clouding your thoughts goes from making you dizzy to making you angry in the span of those two words and three syllables. You mean to scoff at him. You mean to turn around and storm the fuck out of that bathroom, pills or no pills, test or no test; because there’s no  _ way _ he is getting to you, not here in this tiny space and him in that ridiculous tiny skirt and those dumb shoes,  _ you aren’t even gay _ .

You can’t manage much more than a stifled little noise.

He purses his lips, blowing you a smoky kiss. (He’s wearing lip gloss.  _ Why is he wearing lip gloss. _ ) “What, don’t you like it?” There’s a smirk on his face, and he actually spins, making the pleated skirt flare around his narrow hips, enough that you can see the clingy, gauzy panties he’s wearing under it. (Are they fucking  _ see-through _ ?) When he comes to a stop, he laughs. “Oh, man, you should see your goddamn face.”

He gestures to the mirrors behind you, but you don’t know if you care to actually see what you look like. The laughter does for you what all the anger in the world couldn’t, though: you find your voice. “What the hell, Dave!” Your voice squeaks at the end of his name, and the sound of it ramps your anger up a couple more notches. How dare he. You’re John Egbert, suave ladies’ man and prom king. You aren’t some second-rate jock to be stunned speechless by some stupid fucking  _ idiot _ twink in a stupid fucking skirt. How can he do this to you?!? You have a  _ test to pass _ !! “We had a deal!”

“Yeah, we did. Still do.” Dave sounds thoroughly amused, and you want to hit him for it, to pummel that stupid smug grin right off his stupid face. He sashays up to you, taking another drag off his cigarette, leaning up on his toes until he’s right in your face. The cloud of smoke that escapes his puckered lips is nauseating, and you flinch back. “Did I say you weren’t getting your pills?”

You’re too busy choking on the sickening smell of cherry lip gloss and nicotine to respond, and he reaches past you while you cough. There’s a  _ click _ .

Did he just  _ lock you in? _

If you were angry before, you’re furious now.

Dave, taking advantage of the fact that you’re still recovering from your coughing fit, continues. “I just want to talk before we get down to it, is all. No pleasure in business, y’know? Besides, ain’t nothing saying we can’t blur some lines, here. Figured I might be able to sweeten the deal a little. Give you something we both know you want.” He flicks his shades up just long enough to wink at you.

You’re fighting desperately for air, because you need to tell him  _ right now _ just where he needs to shove it and how it needs to be nowhere near your ass. Just as you think you might be ready to let loose a volley words describing exactly how you feel on the matter, he’s back in your face  _ again _ , and this time, that noxious cloud of cancer hits you just as you’re sucking in your first real breath since you’d stepped into the room.

You’re not even thinking when you slap the cigarette out of his hand, and you turn your head away from him, smothering your coughs with the crook of your elbow. “You— _ fucking _ — _ prick _ ,” you manage, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as he laughs. You’re starting to get really sick of the sound bouncing off the walls in the enclosed space. “Shut up, Dave.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll kick your fucking ass.”

He’s back in front of you again. The cigarette has been replaced by a lollipop, because Dave Strider is an asshole, he’s the biggest asshole, he’s the most ass of hole to ever exist. Rather than answer you, he just smirks, drawing the lollipop slowly out of his mouth with a lascivious  _ pop _ .

You grab him by his shirt, shoving him roughly against the stalls, and you’re pretty sure that there isn’t a jury in the world that would try you for whatever crimes you’re about to commit. “ _ Stop it. _ ”

“ _ Stop it _ ,” he echoes in a mocking falsetto. “God, do you even listen to yourself, Egbert? You sound like the kid who got kicked around too much on the playground.”

You tighten your fingers in his shirt. “I said  _ stop it _ , dammit!”

He bares his teeth at you in a twisted mockery of a grin. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

In the next instant, Dave is on the floor and you’re not quite sure how he got there. He’s touching his nose gingerly, though, and when his fingers come away bloody, he once again smirks up at you. It’s a look you can’t handle, and this time you’re aware of how hard you backhand him, and the way he goes sprawling is  _ amazingly _ satisfying.

When he comes up, he’s laughing, though this time the soft sound is more breath than noise. He’s licking blood off his lips with a sigh. “Damn, Egbert,” he drawls, sucking on his lower lip in a way that’s fucking  _ obscene _ . “Was startin’ to think you didn’t have it in you.”

You want to hit him again, but the derisive taunt in his tone is enough to stop you in your tracks.  _ He wants you to hit him. _ The realization comes sudden and swift, and is coupled with a cold sensation settling in the pit of your stomach. He wants you to hit him, and you can’t understand why - though it’s sorely tempting to find out, and your hands curl themselves into tight fists at your side as you struggle to steady your breathing. The world compresses around you, shrinks until it’s nothing but you and Dave in this tiny little bathroom, and you’re aware that you can hear your pulse, pounding in your ears.

Dave Strider looks good when he’s bleeding, and you’re not sure if you can take much more of this.

The worst part is that he knows it. He’s up on his knees and he’s  _ still _ smirking at you, and that pink lollipop is—again—rolling over his lips, coming away streaked with red. He’s standing and your hands won’t move, even when his find the front of your shirt and yank down on it. You’re so angry you can’t think, and underneath it all, you know you should stop this. You shouldn’t let this happen. You’re  _ John Egbert _ (future valedictorian and  _ not a homosexual _ ), and you haven’t wanted Dave Strider since sixth grade; but Dave’s lips are on yours and he tastes like cherries and blood, too much blood, (not enough blood) so you bite down on his lip where it’s bleeding, suck it into your mouth and growl, and Dave moans like a whore and it’s too, too good.

He’s fumbling at the front of your jeans and you yank back on his hair, pulling his mouth forcibly from yours. His laugh is breathy, light, and you discover abruptly that even with him palming your cock through your jeans and his lip gloss smeared on your mouth that sound  _ still _ makes you angry as hell. You shove him away from you, stumbling back as you scrub angrily at your mouth with the back of one hand. Your glasses are smudged, but not so badly that you can’t see that Dave is on his knees in front of you. You want him to do something,  _ anything _ , but you can’t for the life of you figure out what. “Dave, what are you doing.”

His hands are on your jeans again. “The fuck does it look like?” There’s the  _ zzzp _ of your pants unfastening, and you flinch. “Exactly what you want me to.”

You scrabble desperately for some sort of support against the stall divider behind you, but your fingers slip uselessly against the steel surface. Your pants are down around your knees, because Dave’s persistent and you can’t find it in you to stop him. You want to argue with him, to deny it, to tell him that you don’t want this, but you  _ do _ (hell, you have since you were kids; wasn’t that why it was so important he stay away from you? didn’t he get that?) and you can’t manage more than a whimper when he pulls your underwear down. Your cock is already hard, and when he runs his fingers along the underside of it, a tremor runs down your spine, making your shoulders tense. “I didn’t—”  _ I didn’t ask for this, _ you want to say, but he’s got his hand around your shaft, and when he squeezes it, your words tangle themselves up and the sound in your throat resolves into a moan.

“I don’t give a shit.” He presses a kiss to your balls, running his tongue along the underside of them, which is something none of the cheerleaders have ever done. It makes your pulse jump. “This is what I want, Egbert, and fuck you for pretending like you didn’t want this for so long, just because it doesn’t fit into whatever precious  _ dream _ you have about your stupid fucking future.” There’s another kiss, another swipe of his tongue, and then his lips are moving against the head of your cock. “Fuck you for trying to take you away from me.”

You want to argue, to point out all the reasons why he’s wrong and this  _ can’t happen _ , but you can’t think anymore, because Dave’s taking your cock into his mouth, and the way he works his tongue is  _ amazing _ , better than any of the cheerleaders, and when you buck forward he moans around your shaft instead of choking on it. You dig your hands into his hair and pull, and you wonder if Dave Strider ever had a gag reflex, wonder if he actually likes the way you’re fucking his mouth, wonder if he’ll let you do this again ( _ don’t think that, don’t think that _ ) because you ( _ don’t think it _ ) want to, want it so bad that even with your cock buried between his lips you’re aching for him. He’s sucking your dick like he’s starving for it, and your hips won’t stay still, no matter how hard you try. There’s sounds coming from the boy on his knees in front of you, muffled by you rocking desperately into his mouth, and you can’t think, can’t stop, can’t even  _ breathe _ , and when you finally manage to gasp out some sort of warning that you can’t hold back anymore he sucks you so far past his lips that you’re pretty sure you’re halfway down his throat. There’s nothing left for you to do but clutch desperately at his hair and you cum so hard you see stars, your head thudding back against the stall divider with a gasp.

He’s sitting back and licking his fingers, and you’re dimly aware that his skirt is pulled back and his cock is jutting out of those panties. When you look down and realize there’s a puddle of spunk between your legs, you blush so deeply you can feel your ears burn.

Dave, of course, is oblivious to your discomfort. With his hand clean, he makes a sound of satisfaction, reaching down to tuck himself back into his undies. “That was  _ nice _ . No wonder all them girls are clamoring for a piece of the Egbert ass.”

You’re yanking your pants up, hurriedly fastening them and doing your best not to look at him. “That can’t happen again.”

“Bull and shit.” He picks himself up off the floor like he’s got all the time in the world, even taking a moment and adjusting his skirt demurely before he ducks into one of the bathroom stalls. When he emerges, he’s got his backpack in hand, and he rifles through it (you can see his jeans in it, crumpled and shoved haphazardly out of the way).

You frown, a ball of tension collecting in your stomach. “Dave. It really, really can’t.” You wish you could put more conviction in your voice, but your words ring hollow, and he pays not a single bit of attention to them.

He shakes his head as he pulls a small baggie out of his backpack, and he tosses it at you. You catch it, and when you realize it contains exactly what you need, you almost cry with relief. That smirk is back in place on his lips, and he slings his backpack over his shoulder. “It really, really can. You can have more than one dirty secret, Egbert. Sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll, secret lives of the stars, all that jazz.” He winks at you behind the shades. “Pills are on the house.”

He steps past you, unlocking the door. “Good luck on your stupid test.” With that, Dave Strider saunters out of the bathroom, and hopefully out of your life, because there’s no way you’re gonna call him again, no way you can let this happen, no way this can actually be a thing,  _ no way _ —

Your phone buzzes.

TG: same time next week? :*

You swallow as you text him back, and hope to God you’re as good at keeping secrets as he is.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're currently subscribed to me, I'm not at _all_ sorry for the deluge of 'fic you're about to get in your inbox. I'm really not.
> 
> I tried to space it all out, but, eh. Fuck it. I'm impatient.


End file.
